Dublin
The children play in the streets, they say
The children play in the streets
While the ships dock fast in Dublin Bay,
The children play in the streets.
Och aye, the blarney blunderbuss,
He's corked, and who's to blame?
'Tain't that his wee son with a pint,
Too soon to walk the same?
Across Ha'penny Bridge his Molly
Bends to scratch for coal,
And one last fire to celebrate:
Today she quits the dole.
But what of Barry? What of Shane?
Who'll give the tykes their bread,
With Pap in one dyke stone-cold drunk,
In the other Mam stone-cold dead?
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poem by Hm. Nes
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Lana Jane
Every boy loved her- Lana Jane,
And who could blame them? She was fair,
Of perfect form and beauty rare,
But none could have her, Lana Jane,
The fisherman’s only daughter,
And he no man to barter.
For he would take poor Lana Jane
To sea, and she would stay the boat
When harbored; thus, a dreadful moat
Would bar the way to Lana Jane,
The fisherman’s only daughter,
But he refused to barter.
In fourteen years, sweet Lana Jane,
Was never seen upon the shore
Among the boys who wanted more
Than life to see their Lana Jane,
The fisherman’s only daughter,
Whose father ne'er would barter.
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poem by Hm. Nes
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Basketball
What Springfield needs most at their ‘Y, ' so they say,
Is good old athletic distraction
For rowdy boys pinned up inside all the day
By weather below satisfaction.
The teacher from Canada, tasked to design
An inside game, fair but not so rough
To him they have given a brutal deadline:
"Just two weeks or be fired! " And that's tough.
He's chosen the softest of big soccer balls
To not hurt the boys when they get hit,
Peach baskets are affixed high up on the walls
Reducing all rough contact unfit
The rules permit only the passing of balls
No dribbling or batting, to be safe.
And running the ball? Not allowed, lest the falls
Cause the limbs of the players to chafe
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Once More I Rise
Once more I rise
My eyes, my lungs filled with dust
From the arena floor
You are too strong, my worthy foe
The crowd clamors for my blood
Once more I rise
One last time before I fall, finally and forever
But I do not rise for you
Nor certainly for the pleasure of jeering voices
Fomenting hate, though they know not whom
They so despise
In a way, I die for them
I represent their dark souls
In my disgrace, I somehow give them hope
Hope that they too can vanquish
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For Edgar Allan
No not alone I dare suggest,
Though all alone you felt; the rest
Forsaking you upon the stage
Midst blinding light and audience rage.
A mother dead, a father gone
Adopted, yet no name to don.
The demons haunting every wall
And floor, their brew of bitter gall
Assailing purest love; your jewel
Is snatched away, with none to fool.
A heart must cling to what it can-
Inherited from a father's hand.
Alone to hear the raven cry,
Alone to hear the tell-tale lie,
Alone with only God to hear
If only God would dare draw near;
Replace the draught with tender love,
Replace the naught as from above
With truth that tells of a shepherd's care:
No not alone for he was there
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you and I, and the cat
we shared a cup of coffee- you and I,
as the cat looked on.
you had two lumps of sugar, a shot of cream.
mine was black.
I thought to offer cream to the cat; he’d like that.
and then you smiled.
you peered across the rim of your upraised cup, taking a sip,
scrunching your face and smiling through the steam as it
rose from your milky, sweet coffee,
and I forgot about the cat.
he purred.
quickly, I put him outside,
knowing his familiar purr, a purr that soon
would escalate into a full-blown howl
that demanded my attention and some cream.
I wanted only to savor the contented sweetness of your face,
perfectly formed for my delight, but
you felt sorry for the cat.
I had been abrupt, insensitive.
“Why can’t the cat be allowed to purr, even to howl
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Merciful Maker of Waters and Whiles
Merciful Maker of waters and whiles,
Spare please my son from the fierce crocodiles,
Then he too will know you.
I'll rear him to fear you.
He cannot survive in the waters of the Nile.
This trial is too great! The boy is my child!
O Merciful Maker of waters and whiles,
Spare please my son from the fierce crocodiles.
Pharoah's command is most certainly vile:
'Kill each boy child born in all of Israel! '
I hear mothers weeping.
The monsters are feasting.
A child's meat is sweet to those beasts in the Nile.
Revile this intrusion lest I fall beguiled,
O Merciful Maker of waters and whiles.
Spare please my son from the fierce crocodiles!
Alas, and I fear never more will I smile.
They've taken my baby boy down to the Nile.
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Twenty-nine Thousand Four Hundred Seven Sunsets
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
In the early days by my mother’s side,
Though she’d often tell me of the sun and of the sea,
I seldom watched, and never for long,
The slow dissolve,
The melt and plunge,
Now you see it, now you don’t-
So many sunsets lost.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
The years of my youth were marked by friends and sport,
Often whole days on the beach-
Raging winds and mammoth waves
Or a still, glass sea, not a cloud in the sky,
And every shade in between.
I rarely fathomed the myriad shapes and colors,
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